15. The Warrior

Days pass by, and the house is in a state of calm serenity. Wren spends her evenings in art mostly. I spend many nights simply watching her.

Compelling a handful of humans at a time, Wren is getting better and better at controlling her wild side. With only one more notable time that she had any difficulty stopping, and she didn’t drink from that human nearly as much as the last. The following time, she stopped on her own.

It is a relief.

My theory is that her first feeding experience being what it was, affected her deeply, and she had been creating a loop of self destruction that she couldn’t get herself out of. Being unable to control herself a second time and ending the life of someone she knew, albeit someone who deserved it, did a number on her confidence. She couldn’t restrain herself twice, so she thought she would never be able to.

With encouragement from myself and other coven members, Wren has blossomed. Sparring with Chandra and sometimes Zach helps to satisfy her physical need for exertion. I have offered to help her there, but for some reason, she insists we can’t spend eternity in bed. Now, her art satisfies her mind.

Creating from nothing.

It fits her.

I watch her breathe her kind of life into this place. She sketches different coven members, capturing them when they least expect it. When their facade is invisible, she can see the person beneath. She paints scenes of our gatherings, moments when our coven truly feels like family.

Wren has bonded with everyone in some way, shape, or form. She is ours. Our family for eternity.

I can spend all night just watching as she draws inspiration from the world around her, somehow her skilled hands know how to draw a specific curve—moving with such surety, such grace. When I’m not absorbed in watching her process, I throw myself into research. Rolando and I look up everything we can about the history of vampire changes. So far, we haven’t found a single record of another vampire failing to merge during the turn.

Strike one.

When that fails, I try to research why the mate bond telepathy would have triggered while Wren was still human.

Strike two.

I document what happened and what it felt like, and that my theory is the sole reason I could hear her while she was human is because her life was in danger. In a moment of desperation, she could channel the bond she didn’t even know she had with me. Our initial meeting, coupled with my being near, gave her access. The circumstances, however, gave her the will to use it.

There may not be another case like it, but there will be now if this happens again.

The last thing to archive is the bond itself, its creation, and the experience of sealing it. Bonds are known, but they aren’t documented well.

Strike three, I’m out.

Had I known more about what to expect, I may not have kept it from Wren as long as I did. Maintaining a distance from her had been pure and utter torture. It will be wondrous if our experience can spare another couple the same fate.

Vampire covens are responsible for documenting their history as it occurs. Back in the old days, we only had the option to journal. The printing press allowed us to create books with more longevity, and now, the internet. If I hadn’t lived through its creation, my past self would’ve thought of it as magic.

Rolando has taken it upon himself to transcribe everything and digitize it. Better him than me. Now, our records will live forever. Having worked in graphic design, Wren helped him to create a website-style mechanic to access anything we want quickly and easily. A damn search bar is installed at the top to help find specific entries. Each piece is carefully typed to be legible, with photographs of the original journals. It is indeed an amazing feat.

The hierarchy of vampires is reasonably straightforward—a council with representatives from around the world that set the general rules. Stay hidden. Cities across the planet hold multiple covens, one being the “leading” coven for the area. Usually, the oldest vampire will be the leader, as it is with ours, and as the leading representative, they will travel for diplomatic and disciplinary reasons.

Leland is on a diplomatic mission this time, in another state, helping a coven establish footing after overtaking another. The council cares little for who is in charge where, but they care a great deal if infighting leads to discovery. Particularly apt at the art of remaining hidden, my maker has gone to ensure the transition goes smoothly. The coven that had been removed were troublemakers, leaving bodies as they pleased and risking our anonymity as a species.

Before he left, I had wished I was going along to assist him, but eying Wren in the corner, engrossed in her latest project, I am grateful I was left behind.

As the second oldest and Leland’s first creation, I have taken the role of second in command. I can’t go with him everywhere, even though I long to ensure he stays protected. If he has one weakness, it is his damn honor.

Old fashioned, he’s never adapted to using more modern methods to deal with rogue vampires, sticking to his sword. I think it is stupid when we have plenty of assault weapons lying around. Guns may not kill us, but they can mangle a body enough to get it out of commission until you have time to take the head. Leland doesn’t think it is a fair fight and refuses to use them. It worries me. It always worries me.

“Tell me about your human life,” I hadn’t even heard Wren come up behind me. She wraps her arms around my middle, and I turn in her embrace.

“It was pretty boring. Medieval times weren’t filled with much to pass the time.” I touch her face with the back of my hand, relishing the softness of her. She takes that hand in hers and gives it the gentlest of kisses.

“Come with me.” She leads me to the part of the living room that she’s claimed as her workspace. The corner with the best view of the city. She positions me in front of a chair and then pushes me down. I reach for her, expecting her to climb into my lap. Instead, she pulls away and sits across from me. “Describe your life for me. Tell me what it was like to be a knight.”

I am a little disappointed not to have her sitting with me, but what my lovely wants, my lovely gets.

Reliving my human days isn’t the easiest. Those memories are foggier than the ones I have created as an immortal. After seven hundred and thirty-two years, I have plenty of memories, but I do my best. I explain how and why I became a knight, describe the training it took, the honor it brought me, and the battles I faced. I give her the clearest memory I have, the day I died. For some reason, our deaths stuck with us easily.

I watch as her hands move across the paper, a pencil between her fingers. I imagine what she is drawing. Will it be some imposing battle scene? Will I see myself with armor?

“What about your family? Did you return to them at all after you turned?” I sense this question holds more weight than it seems to. She misses her parents. Is playing dead going to be too difficult for her?

“I never saw them again.” I study her face, though she doesn’t look up from her paper. The words smooth over her, and I see no change, no reaction. I try to reach out to her mind and see what she is feeling, but she volunteers nothing. Wren has learned the intricacies of our connection in a way that surprises me. Maybe having her memory has something to do with it.

“I’m fine, Oz.” She insists, eyes still focused on her work.

I don’t believe her.

“Don’t cut your eyes at me, Oswald.” The audacity of learning my full name. Let alone using it?

“Where in the hell did you learn that name?” Her pink lips curve in a smirk as she continues, ignoring me. Her slightly too-large front teeth are visible, making her look like a chipmunk up to no good. How had she gotten this little nut of information? “Wren…” I want an answer damn it.

“Sir Oswald Hurst, born in twelve ninety-one, died in thirteen seventeen.” My mouth drops open, and Wren looks incredibly smug. “Rolando digitized the records, remember? I’ve been reading while helping with the archive website.”

Irritation flows through me. I hate the name, Oswald. Even as a human, I despised it. I was so grateful when the times progressed, and I was able to adopt a nickname. I could’ve just changed it, but that didn’t feel right. It was a gift from my parents and my only connection to my human family. “Don’t ever call me that,” I grumble.

Light dances in her eyes, so pleased to have a way under my skin. “Only when you’re in trouble then.” Laughter tickles the edges of her voice. I relax my shoulders, no one calls me that, but if I have to hear it from anyone, there is no one better. I will be her Oswald, her Sir, her knight in shining armor if that’s what she needs me to be. I’d rather be the evil stealing her away and keeping her to myself, but we have centuries for role play.

“Do you wish there was a way to have your parents in your life?” I ask, finally digging at the wound she doesn’t want to show me. I won’t let her hide from me. She knows I won’t.

Something resembling pain shines in her eyes for the briefest of moments and is gone just as fast. I feel guilty, but I want to know so I can help.

“Yes, and no.”

Well, at least she’s straightforward.

“I know I could have them for a time. Pop up in a few days, weeks, or months, and pretend it was just memory loss that kept me away. But I would always have to leave eventually. How long would I have? A couple of years, max? Better to rip the band-aid off and let them mourn now than hurt them with distance later.” I study her. She says this, but her heart wishes it is different. She’s right. If we keep her family in her life, we can get married and invite them. We can move away. They would still be in touch, but the distance we’d have to maintain would hurt them slowly until they died.

This way, they can mourn now. Then they can move forward and find happiness again.

Hopefully…

Wren doesn’t care if it hurts her more to do it this way. She’d rather her parents’ grief be as smooth as possible. Her selfless compassion truly astounds me sometimes.

“Done,” a tone of pride fills Wren’s voice as she turns her sketchbook towards me. I take a sharp breath as I revel in her creation.

It’s me, but not in the way I expected.

There is no armor, no sword, no battle.

Just me, in ordinary clothes, leaning against a building. Just a typical day. A shadow of bruising, wrappings around my knuckles. Proof that I had been no more special than any of my knighted brothers. My birth and nobility mean nothing. Only my dedication and work give me the status I earn.

“You truly have a gift,” I stare at it in wonder. I’d thought she’d romanticize the time and title and make me out to be more than I was. Instead, she depicts me as an average man, taking a break after scrimmaging with the other knights in training. Flashes of laughing through broken noses, drinking ale, and singing songs to honor the heroes that came before us. It’s like I am home again. “Thank you,” I whisper as she hands it to me. I can’t stop looking at it. I want to frame it and keep it forever. “It’s just missing one thing.”

Frowning, she hurriedly moves to stand behind me, peering over my shoulder, looking for what’s missing. Brows knit together as she scans the piece, finding nothing. I reach for her hand and kiss the inside of her wrist. “Your signature, love.” I enjoy few things in this world more than the sight of her rolling eyes at me. One is how she whimpers my name, and the other is the place between her thighs. Scrawling her name in the bottom right corner, she completes her work. “There, now it’s perfect. I’d like to frame this in our room.”

“Really?” Surprise colors her voice.

“Absolutely, you made it for me. I want to keep it in a place of honor.” I carefully close her book and guide her to sit on my lap.

Stroking her hair away from her neck I nuzzle closely. I love the way she smells after drawing or painting. Like fresh paper, and the way it mixes with her honeysuckle scent is divine. I kiss her neck softly, closing my eyes and allowing myself to get drunk on her nearness. I scrape my teeth across her skin, and her fingers desperately clutch at my hair as she gasps.

How she reacts to my touch sends a wave of arousal through me. As I twitch in my pants, I know she is experiencing something similar. My hand slips up her thigh, getting closer to its goal. It is hard to tell if she’s bending to my presence through the fabric of her pants. Grazing my hands against the apex of her thighs outside of her leggings, I gently suckle on the skin of her neck, intermittently running my teeth across her flesh. Rewarded with the softest of moans, I send my hand searching.

Slipping under the waistband, I stroke against her core. Her panties are wet already. I quietly laugh against her skin, happy I have the same effect on her as she does on me. We aren’t exactly concealed here in the living room, and while that does have a tempting sort of danger to it, only Wren’s more feral side seems to enjoy having sex in public. My Wren likes a little more privacy.

Can I entice her into a mixture of both?

I don’t have to reveal her body at all. I slide my fingers under the soft cotton covering her mound. My knuckles brush against her hot folds, and she quietly moans into my ear. Maybe I won’t fully take her, but I can certainly, covertly, give her pleasure. “Oz,” she whispers, questioning, no doubt because of the nearness of other coven members. No one is so close that they can hear if she remains ever so quiet.

If anyone looks over, it would just seem like we are kissing and cuddling. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Shhh,” I breathe, circling her clit with a finger, trying to coax it out. “Just stay quiet. That’s a good girl.” One of her hands remains tangled in my hair, and the other clutches my thigh for support. Leaning forward, my lips find hers, and my middle finger teases her entrance. Softly, quietly like I told her, she moans into my mouth as I sink the digit into her.

She was so hot inside, her body yearning for my touch. I move my finger slowly, stroking her walls for that one particular place. My thumb presses into her clit. She releases my lips and whispers, “Yes, oh please.” I love it when she asks me for it. I sink a second finger into her, still torturing her most sensitive bud. She wants to sway and buck her hips and instead is trembling with the exertion to remain still.

My free hand slips up her shirt, caressing the underside of her breast as my thick fingers pump in and out of her. I clasp her nipple tightly, rolling it as she mewls under my touch. A third finger enters, and her body begins to tense beneath me. “Oh!” she cries, a little louder than she should.

“Shhh,” I remind her. “You must be very quiet if you want me to let you come. Do you understand me?”

She nods, eyes closed as I continue to take what I want from her. She enjoys surrendering to me, letting me fully control the situation. Commanding her is divine. Her moans are no more than gasps and sighs as she regains control of her voice, but her legs are trembling.

“You look so beautiful, squirming under my touch,” I whisper to her, increasing the speed of my thrusting fingers, paying attention to the small rough area inside her. My thumb moves against her clit, stroking it, getting faster to match the pace of my hand. “Who does this belong to,” I breathe in her ear.

“You.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. She has given in to me completely, letting me control her body and loving every second.

“That’s right, me. Have you been good?” She nods against my chest. “Should I let this little cunt of mine come?” I pull back off the pressure, keeping her shy of the release she wants. She whimpers.

“Beg me for it,” I demand, undulating my fingers inside her.

She gives in.

“Oh, Oz. Oh God, please, will you let me? Please.” The sound of her begging is almost enough for me to pull her pants down and take her there in the living room. I resist because this is for her right now.

“Look at me when I let you come, my love.” Her beautiful gray eyes open and look up, locking on mine. Kneading her breast, I reach forward and pinch her nipple again, simultaneously pressing down firmly on her clit, massaging it back and forth. Faster and faster, I pump my fingers inside of her and then feel her walls tighten and pulse around them, and her body begins to tremble with each stroke. Her wetness practically gushes over my hand as she orgasms, and her lips open in a silent cry.

I take her mouth in mine and slip my tongue against hers. I hold her there for a moment longer, not letting up, dragging it out. Finally, I remove the pressure from her, and my fingers stop their movement. I feel her hips twitch against me, and I release her lips, hearing her pant as I smile.

“You did so good, Wren,” I whisper into her temple before I kiss it. A satisfied laugh escapes her, and I hug her tightly as she recovers. I remove my hand from her clothes and lick her essence from my fingers. Glancing around for a sign that anyone noticed what we were up to, I find none. It seems we’ve gotten away with our private little session. Not that anyone here would probably care if we decided to fuck out in the open. The shadows of the club are one thing. Wren’s personal feelings aside, I don’t think my jealousy would be up for quite such a public display, either. But this? This I can do.

We clean up, then I am content to just hold her. She’s curled in my lap, and we’re oblivious to time. The sun will be up soon, and I contemplate all of the ways I can take her in the light. I am already planning the things I want to do to her. Watching the sun kiss her skin while I do them is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Rolando comes bursting into the house, more boisterous than usual, and I turn to see what the commotion is. “He’s back!” Excitement fills the entire house as the rest of my family pours into the room from wherever they’d been before.

Leland.

Grinning, I kiss Wren’s forehead. “Ready to meet my maker, little bird?”